Task Force HAVOC
by Hamid lawnmower
Summary: Mix desperate Russian premiers, Iranian freedom fightes, real-life weapons and the world most elite counter-terrorist rapid response force and you get this. Enojoy...


PRNICPLE CAST OF CHARACTERS

US government:

President Mack Collin

Minister of Foreign Affairs Jane Kinsley

Military advisor General Rolland Preston

NSA:

Director Vice Admiral Preston Hook

Lieutenant Darren Franke

Team HAVOC:

Brigadier General David Kerman

Lt. Cmdr Patrick Millar

Sgt. Major Roger Macmillan

Cpl. Anthony Lloyd

Cpl. Jones Wright

Pvt. Fraser Steven

Pvt. Scott Robinson

Russian Government:

Premier Boris Krukov

Iranian Government:

President Mohammad Al-Yaseen

Iranian Military:

General Waleed

Colonel Abdul

Lt. Cmdr Rahul Fasood

Capt. Jerrod

Al-Tamarad:

Mustafa bin-Khalid

His wife

Field Marshall Saed

Others:

Lt. Vanessa, USAF

Al-Jazeera Senior Correspondent Jessica Davies

Senior detective Raed, Iranian Military Police

Chauffer Yassir

CIA agent, Leo Starkenzy (Ret.)

EPILOUGE

1203 hours, April 1st 2014, Geneva Conventions Centre, Geneva city, Switzerland

The assembled mass of men and women representing the continents of North America, Europe and Asia all sat in there seats conferring amongst each other, adding to the chatter among the hundreds of reports and camera men stationed near the stage. Around the room hung the flags of the United States, Britain, Russia, France, Italy, Spain, Germany, Norway, Australia and New Zealand flattering to the breeze of the air conditioning units. The Presidents of the ten countries sat around a massive and grand wooden table, made from the woods of Germanys black forest and New Zealand's huge Kauri trees.

Cameras flashed occasionally, the signing of the TWAS treaty, otherwise known as the terrorist weapons anti-support was still underway, and despite the air conditioners and de-humidifiers the massive room the air was still boiling. The ten leaders did not bother to try to hide the discomfort from there faces; they wiped themselves with scarlet handkerchiefs and men rushed to supply bottles of spring water to the world-leaders. Then the crowds of ministers, politicians and reporters silenced as first the presidents, then the whole assembly stood up to sing the Swedish anthem, the words rang echoed and bounced off the walls of the gallery.

After the anthem the crowd sat down, then one by one the leaders of the eights countries came up to sign the paper, which tied the knot of the alliance against weapons supply to any and every terrorist group, whether local or international. The Russian president, Premier Boris Krukov was third 'in line' to sign the paper, he was given a golden ball-point pen; he scanned the page, signed it then shook hands with the President of the United States. He was followed by the Prime Minister of New Zealand, who seemed so unimportant among these powerful men. The session took around forty minutes, and then the crowds began to leave the gallery.

The masses of bodies trying to politely push their way out of the increasingly hot room all had weary, tired faces. On such an important day, no one seemed happy to have been there, not even the photographers who had gotten front-page shots. The Russian president seemed very self-absorbed that day; usually he was a jolly selfless man, who enjoyed fine Vodka during the grueling days of abuse from Father Winter on Mother Russia. He was escorted to a back entrance by the ruthless officers of the KGB, not the usual Russian secret-service. He was taken to a limo then to Geneva International airport. He was immediately flown back to Moscow aboard a private and very luxurious Airbus jet.

Russia was currently in a state of disarray, it was still recovering from the major economic downfall of 2011, where the entire Russian economy, military and civilian had fallen into a heap. After the media had officially ended the career of the previous Russian president in 2010, many politicians and high-ranking military officials tried of take control of the federation, no one ran a real political campaign, instead they just used conscripted ex-special forces to assassinate there enemies, Russia was essentially less a country and more of a bunch of hooligans rampaging around the Kremlin. When the United States finally decided to intervene, they installed Boris as their puppet. He then slowly and steadily regained control of Russia and disconnected from the eagle eye of the United States.

Three hours after the signing of the TWAS treaty, April 1st 2014, Al-Tamarad head quarters, outskirts of Tehran, Iran

Mustafa bin Khalid, an enigmatic and ambitious Arabian man of his late forties stood before the massed crowd of fighters. They all held rifles, loaded but with no intention of violence…yet. Mustafa was on a raised stage, several meters above the crowd of men. "Freedom fighters, we are gathered here to acknowledge the rise of Al-Tamarad!" He shouted, the message was broadcast along lines of speakers, a moment later the crowd roared, cheering and applauding, "Remember this day, for it will be remembered for years to come, it will be remembered as the day when free man fought back the tyrannical yoke of the west!" The crowd once again roared in agreement, the shouts enveloping the night sky.

"For years, this great country has been led by men who have promised to led us to a greater tomorrow, but instead they sprawled down the path in which we have had to walk at gunpoint to the westernized civilization of oppression!" the crowd's shouts challenged the sound of over flying MI-8 'Hip's and rumbling T-72 tanks of the Al-Tamarad Army. "But we will begin a new! We will march side-by-side with the aide of our Russian brothers into freedom! Not the freedom these puppet masters have promised you, but the freedom from the imprisonment of the west! We will open the gates of freedom not only to our selves but to all of Iran! This great country will be liberated and our culture, honor and independence shall be restored! We will share our victories as we share our failures, but through and through we will come out from the fog of America as victors!"

That's when every man in that crowd raised their automatic weapons and fired into the air, ignoring Newton's laws of gravity. The combination of shouts and gun fire rang out through the city. The Iranian government had been aware of the group of fighters known as Al-Tamarad for many years, yet they chose to ignore there presence, a mistake that would have to be paid in blood by the thousands of civilians of Tehran. The Al-Tamarad had been building their army for years supplied by stray arms dealers and weapons traffickers. But since the inauguration of Russian Premier Boris Krukov the Al-Tamarad army had grown considerably.

Boris had been desperate to restore Russia's economy, trying everything in his power to finance the country. When he met Mustafa and learned of his cause, the total overthrow of the Iranian government, he saw a chance that would not come twice. The Russian army would supply the Al-Tamarad with weapons in return for money that Al-Tamarad had plenty of. And once Iran was under Mustafa's control he would close the deal by sending barrels of pure Iranian crude to Russia every day, together the leaders would rebuild each others own countries. Of course there was a deadline, and if Mustafa didn't make the deadline the contract would be called off, although the desperation of Boris made this extremely unlikely, at least to Mustafa it did.

Now, the Al-Tamarad was stronger then ever, it was its own air force and army, with 8 divisions of troops, and 12 battalions of mobilized infantry and amour plus twelve fighter-bomber wings. The main land-based armored fighting force consisted of the improved Russian T-72 tanks and BMP-2 infantry fighting vehicles. Their main mode of transport was the MI-8 'Hip' troop transport helicopter. Their inventory of air-support vehicles included MI-24 'Hinds' and MI-28 'Havocs' both bristling with rockets and machine guns. They had some thirty or so MIG-29 fighter-bombers which provided decent air-superiority but paled in comparison to American F-16 hornets.

Considering the fact the group started with one hundred or so former members of the Taliban, Al-Qaeda and Hamas and was being lead by some half-crazed towel-head with a couple of TNT bombs to spare, this was a huge overhaul of military might and sheer determination. They had come a long way now, and probably could overthrow an entire country if they wanted to, which was exactly what they would do, given they have some military planning and co-ordination. But they weren't going to obliterate the city just yet. No, Mustafa would wait for a while, and would lay low until then, conducting routine training and conscription programs until the right time came, he would be precise to the hundredth of a second, there was no time for mistakes.

Same time, April 1st 2014, Iranian Government building, City centre, Tehran, Iran

The President of Iran, Mohammad Al-Yaseen's limo, a black Mercedes Benz SLR, turned down the driveway and parked in the space preserved for the president himself, the chauffeur, Yassir, a kind and persistent man who had spent six years of his life driving Iran's most important man, opened the back door. Mohammad stepped out of the limousine, he entered the building without any escort of bodyguards, this was a private visit, and no one civilian knew except Yassir. The president walked the length of the building before taking the elevator up to the third floor; the building was generally empty, with only a few janitors and some people filing piles of documents.

Mohammad entered a private operations room, inside a single man sat down, staring into empty air through small piercing eyes. General Waleed, retired but still battle-fit, had fought against insurgents from Taliban and the armies of Iraq. Waleed did not stand or salute he simply faced the President as he sat down in front of him. The two men leaned on an empty desk which was illuminate by an overhead lamp, it seemed like one of them was about to be interrogated. Waleed talked first. "Sir, it's been confirmed, Mustafa bin Khalid has just finished his speech sir. The Al-Tamarad is on stand-by, what you suggest happens sir?"

"Have they been a significant military threat in the past?"

"They have the equipment and weapons to be one, but have never conducted a military hostile operation."

"So they _can_ be a threat."  
"Not in the meantime. But possibly in the future."  
"What is his strength composition?"

"Around 5000 thousand men, and around twenty old soviet-era armor and helicopters." Waleed did not know how far away from the truth he was.  
"So if they were to attack this city, where do we stand?"

"Beaten and bettered, unless you bring the National Guard to red alert."

"That would cause chaos! The media already want my head on a stick."

"That's why we should attack now, surround them and capture Mustafa."

"Oh yes, while I'm at it I'll just go get wasted smoke some sheesha and rape my auntie, and then flash it over the news papers." President Mohammad said sarcastically then more seriously, "We can't destroy this city over a group of half-crazed towel heads Waleed; we need more options, how about negotiations?"

"Mohammad my friend, we have both fought in the 2nd royal battalion of Iran, we have driven our tanks through hell and lost many good men, all because we didn't acct fast enough, and we ignored the clues. We don't want this country to turn into New York on 9/11."

"We also don't want this country to look like its being led by over-exaggerating psycho paths blowing up the capital city over a few coincidences."

"THESE ARE NOT COINCIDENCES!" Blared out Waleed, he regained his composure then continued, "Mustafa is not to be under-estimated nor a single member of his… um… 'Congregation'.

"So other than the complete destruction of Tehran, what other ideas do you have?"

"I've been thinking about this for a while, ever since Al-Tamarad began to form, Operation Straight Flush. We chop of the head, the snakes body fails."

"You're proposing an assassination, of Mustafa bin Khalid?"

"Precisely."

CHAPTER 1

1345 hours, April 1st 2014, Aboard Private Airbus jet, Thirty miles west of Moscow, Russia

Boris sat hunched in his seat; an aide approached him as he stared into the plains of his homeland, the plains were the Germany's Panzers had rumbled across, firing wildly at the Red Army during the Second World War. "Sir, we have a communiqué from Mustafa." The aide/flight attendant than handed the president over a military-designed laptop. Boris considered joining the Mile High Club as he turned his attention away form the window and to the flight attendee's backside. Boris vacated his mind form his boredom and concentrated on the message.

It read, _Comrade Boris, everything is going to plan, President Al-Yaseen is being bombarded by scrutiny from the media, once the coup de'ate has begun all of Iran will fall to my knees, the oil will be yours once we control he country but it may take some time, I will try to reach the deadline but there may be some difficulty, keep the weapons coming, I don't want any nasty surprises. That would look bad on your leadership; we don't won't your reputation to be ruined do we? I am currently rallying my men for the resurrection of Iran. As they say in your country, '_Dastnevania' _comrade._

Boris Krukov sighed and rang his hand through locks of grey hair; he then closed the laptop and thought for a moment. _Mustafa that bastard_ was about all he could think about, _that rotten faced, toad-licking towelhead, sheet wearing bastard._ The Premier was at the end of his tether, his leadership did not revive the Russian economy; nothing did for three years until Boris was contacted by a rebellion group in Iran, Al-Tamarad roughly translated to 'The Rebellion' was a force of around one hundred thousand men, they were an underground army plotting the downfall of Iran. Apparently their leader, Mustafa needed weapons which Russia had, and Boris needed oil which Iran had. So the deal was struck, the oil for the weapons.

Boris knew this was a direct violation of the TWAS treaty he had just signed, but frankly he did not give a shit, he wasn't about to let some stupid 'treaty' that so many other countries would break to get in the way of his plans to revive Russia's awful, degrading economy. And plus, how would anyone ever find out? Mustafa promised to keep his mouth shut, and if any weapons were seized by the United States or its allies he would simply say they were bound for Iran, to help fight back the Al-Tamarad forces in the capital. And that was partially correct, as Russia is also supplying weapons to Iran, albeit very faulty old ones so Mustafa wouldn't get angry.

Boris waved over the flight attendant and ordered some marinated steak, with potato, onions and bottle of chardonnay. He ate by himself for the rest of the flight, munching carefully at the beautifully cooked steak, and sipping quietly at the very expensive French deluxe drink. The plane began to slowly descend, it lowered its landing gear as it approached runway 6C. The little jet's tires screeched against the asphalt of the runway, kicking up dirt as the airbrakes slowed the plane down. The Airbus jet eventually slowed down to 5 knots, it turned south east and parked at a reserved spot.

Boris stood up, wiping his suit; he then stepped cautiously down the stairs at the aft hatch. The Premier was escorted by two members of the Russian secret service to a limo. The sleek black and bulletproof car then made its way down the main highway, took a shortcut through an urban apartment block then turned right; it steadily drove at 50km/h through the Red Square past the bulbous roofed church and finally parked in front of the Kremlin. Boris took his light luggage and unlocked the door to his suite, the Premier, exhausted and angry took of his suit, didn't bother with his shirt and jumped onto his bed, and his wife was at some nuclear research convention. The big Russian got to sleep instantly; he dreamed of the flight attendant and snored away. While several hours and miles away, the members of the Iranian 3rd airborne planned the assassination of his only chance, Russia's only chance.

1415 hours, same day, Operations briefing room, Iranian SpecOps HQ, Tehran, Iran.

Iranian 3rd airborne special operations lieutenant Rahul Fasood sat idly as Colonel Abdul briefed his squad of expert and experienced life takes on there next mission. "Your target is Mustafa bin Khalid, leader of the Al-Tamarad." Said Abdul, a display behind him popped up a satellite image of the outskirts of Tehran. A pointer focused on a large warehouse, abandoned but speculated to be Al-Tamarad's Head Quarters. "This building is a long-since abandoned wax factory, the headquarters of Al-Tamarad. Intel from the CIA and our own sources confirm that Mustafa's last known location was here." The pointer zoomed in on the factory then scrolled two blocks to the east, the picture pixilated than cleared up.

"This man is highly dangerous; he is believed to be ex-special forces as three years ago he single-handedly killed three members of the CIA in cold blood. He used tactics practiced only by us, the US Navy SEALS and Britain's SAS. He is an expert in armed and unarmed combat and that is why you must approach with caution." A picture of Mustafa snapped out on the screen, he was a man of his late forties, his goatee was shaven and he had wrinkles of war. The mans eyes were blue and his face was tanned. "Your mission is to assassinate him when he leaves the building. Intel says he is scheduled to leave the premises three days from now, at 2100 hours. We will transport you by chopper to the outskirts of the city; you will then meet up with one of our drivers who will take you to your assassination location."

"He is a married man, and his wife will probably escort him to his meeting. You do not have authorization to kill her, unless necessary. She is believed to be trained in unarmed melee by her husband, so avoid her. We have rented out an apartment facing the building. It is on the second story and has a large window. You will live there for the next two days, where you will recon the building at all times. You will be given fake passports and driving licenses, incase of alternative transport needs. You may choose to dine out but only takeaway, and never from the same restaurant twice. Do not make large orders. You will be given five thousand American dollars to spend."

The display showed 3D images of the apartment they had rented; it was empty with a small kitchen and lavatory. Lieutenant Rahul Fasood was satisfied so far. "You will be supplied with binoculars, thermal sensors and Infrared scanners. You may choose your own methods of elimination. If you chose to snipe him you will be supplied with suppressed USP.45 pistols, AK-47's and Styer SSG-69 sniper rifles, both suppressed." Lieutenant Rahul wasn't alone in this mission; he was going with Captain Jerrod, an ex-SAS sniper. The two man team was essentially the only men fit for such a mission in Iran's inventory

"You will also be equipped with enough explosives to destroy the entire apartment block, the decision is yours. Personally I would stick to the sniping, but due to the importance of this mission you can set up explosives while your at it, just incase your stealth is compromised. When you need to escape you will proceed to the back exit of the apartment block where you will find a parking lot, in the underground floor of the parking lot you will find a Bentley parked in the disabled parking. We will supply you the Keyes. Then you will make your way to the extraction point where you will be picked up by a military helicopter. The car will have a M249 SAW machine gun in the back seat, just incase as well as several rounds of ammo for your Kalashnikov's."

"This mission of great importance, Allah is with you." Abdul said finally. Afterwards Rahul and Jerrod proceeded to say goodbye to their families, they also wrote their will and secured their life insurance. Then in silence the two prayed to their gods before returning to the Head Quarters. An Iranian Air force Iroquois helicopter unarmed but in desert camouflage scheme, waited on the roof of the six story intelligence building. The two hit men, loaded their equipment, weapons, food, fake documents and ammo then took their seats. The flight to the outskirts of Tehran took only twenty minutes, but to both men it felt like twenty hours.

It would probably be the last time either Rahul or Jerrod ever saw there families. The chopper kicked up dust as it began to descend near an empty road; half a click away from the LZ, then flying in low altitude it flew west, the pilot scanned the horizon for a car, nothing. The chopper waited for five minutes until the pilot spotted a car coming up from the north. Two minutes later the vehicle stopped ten meters away from the helicopter. "Echo nine, this is Charlie, your chariot awaits you." said the pilot. Rahul and Jerrod unloaded their stuff and threw it in the boot of a Toyota four by four truck. The hit men then entered the car. Just as the driver began to accelerate the chopper was already up in the air clattering east back to the city centre.

The car drove through the battered slums of the urban suburb. The small town was littered with garbage, chickens and goats roamed around the street while women covered in burkas retuned home from the market. Soldiers armed with old Kalashnikovs patrolled checkpoints, pretending to know what there doing here. The Toyota drove into alleyways, intersections and gravel roads until it reached the apartment block. Rahul and Jerrod unloaded their stuff and hauled it up three rusty, dangerous staircases to room 12, the Keyes the driver had given them fit perfectly into the lock and after some wrestling with the door knob they entered their ops room.

It was completely empty, no carpet, no stove or oven only very new curtains and drapes. The two men began immediately. Before unpacking they laid out two large sheets, they then put on gloves and unloaded their belongings. The two men laid out their work station carefully. Behind the Window the men laid out a foldable chair, and stacked some boxes next to it. Then the connected their sensors and scanners, they also laid out their weapons in order: Two USP.45 pistols, two AK-47's (Avtomat Kalashnikov 1947) rifles and two Styer SSG-69 silenced sniper rifles. They had three extra clips for each rifle, and two combat knives professionally tailored for throwing and stabbing.

It was now 2:55 in the afternoon in Tehran, so while Jerrod kept watch, Rahul exited the apartment building in civilian clothes, he was wearing light trousers and a shirt, the temperature outside was around 32 degrees Celsius, which didn't bother Rahul because he was used to it after spending days in the desert training for missions like these. He crossed the road, and got a sneak peek at Mustafa's residence. It was a two story building, with Egyptian architecture; it was blue and white but very dusty. The brick home had a small garden a high wall surrounding it, with two balconies.

Rahul looked at his apartment's window; he couldn't see Jerrod, which was good. The hit man went to a money shop, and exchanged one hundred US dollars into Iranian Dinar. Rahul then walked down three blocks before reaching a kebab fast food shop. He ordered a takeaway of a four sandwiches and some salad, pretending he was a local. Then he bought some drinks and headed back to the apartment, this time going a different route. He scanned the back of Mustafa's house, the wall was lower at this side and poorly maintained, he then put down his food and took another peak, the backyard wasn't anything special. Just grass and flowers, with a hose and two sandbags.

Rahul soon returned to the apartment with Jerrod sitting in the same spot, staring out using the binoculars.

"I brought back some food, kebab, salads and Coke." Said Rahul, Jerrod put the binoculars down and rubbed his eyes. "I saw you go around the back." he said as he took a sandwich and started eating, "Yeah, just some grass and flowers, no back door though." Rahul replied as he also began to eat, and then said "Anything new?" Jerrod swallowed the chewy and very oily chicken, and then attacked the salad. "Nah, I saw some moving around the house, there are two guards at the front door at all times, Kevlar vests and helmets plus AK's."

The two men ate in relative silence, and then Rahul switched to recon duty. The rest of the day went uneventful, there were six guards in the house, they worked in groups of two and in six hour shifts, which meant the guards changed 4 times a day. The time space between each change was around thirty seconds, which wasn't ample time. But all the hit men had to do was wait until Mustafa exited the house, that's when they'd replace his head with a bullet. And so they waited, for the next two days the two men ate, worked and slept in silence. On the day of the assassination at around 2000 hours Rahul, his USP.45 hidden in his pants, made his way downstairs.

He carried a ladder, and wore painter's overalls; he had splattered food on his clothing to make his job look authentic. He also carried two paint buckets he had stolen; one was stashed with C4 explosives and the other with timing devices and demolition cord. He crossed the road and went around Mustafa's house, inside he could here someone shouting for his/her comb, probably Bin Khalid's wife. Rahul then rounded the corner; he looked both ways before he began his work. Rahul jumped over the low portion of the wall. Then quickly put his ladder on the house, leading up to the second story window. He picked up ten loads of C4 and some cords and a timer. Then climbed the ladder, Rahul swallowed hard, he was attempting something very dangerous. The hit man peeked through the window, no one was inside but there was an undone bed, and other typical master bedroom furniture.

Rahul then took out a crow bar that he had hid under his overalls and shoved it down the window. He expertly unlocked the window than lifted it without a whisper. The assassin then quickly entered the room, he went over to the door, his pistol drawn and locked it. Then Rahul placed five C4 explosives under the rug, he connected them with some DetCord and placed a timer on it, he set the timer to 10 minutes. Rahul unlocked the door and opened it; there was stairs and another door. Rahul marched in the other bedroom at gunpoint. Inside was furnished similarly, he then putt his other stash of C4 under the carpet and connected it to the DetCord, and he also put a timer and set it to 9 minutes.

As Rahul began to open the door he heard fast footsteps. The hit man's instincts forced him against the wall, that's when one of the guards walked in, shoving the door back into Rahul's face, when the man realized the resistance behind the wall he immediately spun around, and leveled his Kalashnikov, but he was too late, Rahul had his pistol aimed at the mans head and shoved the trigger. The bullets spat out form the barrel of the pistol and ripped into the bodyguards jaw. The man's momentum saved him, but not for long. The guard, blood pouring out of the remains of his chin, tried to scream but the five other bodyguards didn't hear him from downstairs.

The guard jumped on Rahul; he wrestled with the special operations officer, a dear mistake. Rahul grabbed his arm and twisted it, breaking it from his elbow joint. He then spun on his back then jumped on the bigger mans back, _Allah forgive me_ he said as he twisted the mans neck twice over, both right and left killing the guard instantly. Mustafa had heard something and hurried upstairs armed with a knife, he entered the room just as Rahul was exiting. The two SpecOps soldiers jumped at each other, Mustafa stabbed Rahul in the shoulder while Rahul shot him in the leg. Mustafa screamed out, the other guards downstairs hurried up. Rahul wrenched Mustafa's wrist breaking it while Mustafa dealt a crushing blow to his stomach.

Both men struggled to turn the tide of the battle, but Rahul soon realized he was dead if he stayed in the building any longer. He pushed free from Mustafa's grip and ran, down the corridor; he ignored the ladder and jumped. Rahul then ran back to the garage. Jerrod saw him bleeding and limping, and with no time rigged the apartment with TNT, he wired it, and then rappelled down to the ground. The two hit men, realizing the failure sprinted back to the garage. They rushed to the underground parking lot and jumped into the Bentley.

Jerrod shoved down the pedal while an injured Rahul hefted the SAW, the car screamed out of the parking lot, Jerrod guided it to the extraction point. The mission was a complete failure, almost. As the residents exited the house the ten C4 explosives thundered out, blasting the roof off the building. The house literally imploded, the fire blossomed out, engulfing the street in flames. While the firefighters rushed to the scene Jerrod radioed the helicopter, in twenty minutes the two men were on the chopper. As the Iroquois helicopter clattered away, the Bentley blew up as well as the apartment destroying any and all evidence.

In total nine people were killed, two janitors working in the apartment corridor, six bodyguards and the most crushing blow was Mustafa's wife. Mustafa, with his arm fully blown off, wept uncontrollably as the men tried to restrain him. The entire street was littered with rubble, and smoke and flames burned uncontrollably, but not as fast as Mustafa wept. Three hours later Mustafa woke in the hospital, his left arm severed and his body bruised. He was trying to remember what had just occurred when a nurse entered his room and broke the worst possible news to him, "Mr. Bin Khalid, your wife… is, dead."

1201 hours, April 10th 2014, Iranian government building, City centre, Tehran, Iran.

Iranian Junior correspondent for Al-Jazeera, Jessica Davies, wiped the sweat off her forehead. She had been camped outside the government building for an hour now. She wanted the front-line story, and hopefully her rotten-aresed boss might promote her to senior reporter. The crowd burst out in questions, Jessica pushed and shoved her way to the front and just managed to see President Mohammad walk past before being shrouded by reporters and cameramen. _Dammit_ she murmured to herself, so much for my promotion.

Seven day's ago two huge explosions destroyed an apartment room and a house. From what the media was able to piece together the house exploded first, followed soon by the third story apartment. There were so many questions and the army of media folk here all wanted President Mohammad to answer. So far there were none and the hopes of any clarifications were nil. Jessica realized that camping here for ages until getting an answer from the fat president wasn't a very good idea. So she took her small Nissan and drove all the way to the suburbs, she found the entire street was blocked off.

Ruble was loaded onto trucks and cranes lifted huge pieces of stone and metal into the air. The building to her left was essentially two crushed walls and tons of burned black rubble; it looked like a war scene. Little did she know it was one. The apartment window was replaced with a huge blanked hole. She exited her car and walked over to a nearby officer and asked in fluent Farsi, "Hi, I'm Jessica Davies form Al-Jazeera, do you know where I can find the lead investigator of this case please?" The officer gave her a detailed set of directions; she thanked him returned to her car.

Three minutes later she was in a small mobile operations centre, inside was senior detective Raed, "Yes, there were two explosions, one small one from the apartment and a much larger one from the house." he answered, Jessica jotted down some notes on a little pad, "Do you think this was a terrorist act?" she asked, "No, these explosions were very professionally executed, a terrorist couldn't get the supplies or training." he answered, "So your saying this was a military operation?" she asked again, tilting her head in that interview-type manner, "Uh, we are not sure, but you can confirm this with army." he replied, more note-jotting was followed, "I believe that on that same day, approximately three minutes later a very luxurious Bentley exploded near a goat path in the outskirts, is this somehow connected to the attacks?" she asked, he replied after some thinking, "I'm not sure, you can contact the investigator in charge of that operation."

The very compliant Raed than gave her a card, after ten minutes of driving Jessica reached the 'crime scene'.

She approached the Junior Investigator, a Kurdish male, in his early forties with straight hair and a funny looking monobrow. She spoke in Kurdish this time, albeit less fluently than her Farsi, "Was this explosion…uh…a failed road side bomb?" the Kurdish man noticed her struggle with the language and spoke simply, "Maybe, we are not sure exactly, it seemed to be military, like the other attacks." he replied, she spoke again, "So this was definitely a military assault on this city?" the Kurdish officer hesitated, "Ye-yes we believe so."

Jessica thanked him and later back in the office she wrote her story. She was promoted to senior reporter by her rotten-arsed boss, and the headlines began to flash across the Middle East in less then twelve hours, assaulting the Iranian military and government. Three hours later FOX and CNN cached up with Al-Jazeera, confirming the reports and giving all credit to newly promoted Al-Jazeera Senior Correspondent Jessica Davies. The headline was:

**Unprovoked military assault in Tehran**

By Jessica Davies 

_On the third of this April, at approximately 8 o'clock in the evening a huge explosion ripped out the heart of a house, killing seven people and causing thousands of dollars in repair. Around twenty minutes later a second explosion blew apart a small apartment on the third floor of a building facing directly opposite of the house. Three minutes later an abandoned Bentley also exploded, parked near a goat path. These attacks claimed nine lives in the downtown suburbs of Tehran, Iran. The attacks are confirmed military not terrorist which raises further alarm about why this happened and who conducted such a heartless civilian massacre. The authorities have not answered to our questions and little fact is known. Whether this military assault was targeting a specific person or persons is yet unclear. _

Colonel Abdul, infuriated, slammed the paper down on the desk. Rahul and Jerrod sat quietly. "We asked you to kill the bastard but instead you nuke the godammed city! Are you bloody out of your minds? And even above all this shit we are getting you failed! How the hell do you manage to kill nine people and blow the hell out of three things in the space of half an hour yet completely miss you target! What the fuck have you been smoking Lieutenant!" He screamed, the entire building heard his screams, and some people wondered if he was giving birth.

"Sir, we were compromised, I was-" Protested Rahul, "COMPROMISED? NO SHIT! You fucking…C4…killed nine fucking…" and so the Colonel went on meanwhile a similar reaction came from Boris after he had learned his friend had almost been blown to hell. "Fucking Iranians!" Shouted Boris, and similar to Abdul slammed the paper on his desk. He swore over and over and to himself. The last thing he needed was his only chance to be blown to hell by some presidential dick-licking special forces of Iran's fucked up army.

Overall the world was outstanding by the attacks, it was almost like the 9/11 of Iran, and no one knew what precisely was going on except the Iranians and Boris. In the CIA HQ agents were dazzled by this sudden bomb attack. Military conducted, and unprovoked. Mustafa was hugely effected, for the next three days he mourned for the lose of his wife, but soon he realized that it would not get in the way of his mission, suddenly, stronger than ever the fire inside began to burn faster than gasoline and harder than napalm. He was going to obliterate the Iranian Army, Air force and Navy, this time it was personal and Lieutenant Rahul Fasood barely knew what he had just wrought upon his country, all hell.

15:00 hours, January 5th, eight years ago, aboard Royal Britain airlines flight 344, above Ireland, enroute to London.

SAS Trooper Scott Robinson, call sign Red two, peered around the corner, he spotted a single hostile. His team leader Sergeant Andrew Smith, Red One, said, "Red's two to Red five, weapons free guys." That's when Scott lowered his MP5SSD silenced SMG and unsheathed his combat knife, then lunged at the air-jacker, his knife cut into the mans throat, the hostile dropped immediately. "Corridor clear." Said Scott as he moved forward, "Red team move up." Ordered Sergeant Andrews, Scott cautiously moved forward, three insurgents appeared around the bulkhead of the Boeing 747, Scott put two down with a short burst from his SMG, and the last one raised his UZI and fired wildly forcing Scott to duck under the first-class seat.

The man's head exploded as another SAS fired. Scott got up and the five SAS troopers moved forward, six or so insurgents moved down the stairs at the other end of the cabin, Scott cut down one, "Red two, throw a flash bang." Scott then primed his grenade and threw it several meters up into the air. The five remaining terrorists were blinded and deafened by the blast; the SAS put them down easily. "Bogey down, Oscar nine move up, Charlie 5 watch our six, desperation maneuver delta, two meter spread. Go, go, go!" Scott moved up the stairs, two SAS covered his left.

Ten insurgents in the next cabin opened fire and gave away their positions. The bullets riddled the bulkheads around Scott. The SAS returned fire, cutting down three insurgents. Scott faced the enemy a blasted two heads off with his MP5. He then threw a flash bang; he was rewarded with a sharp explosion. The remaining men were shot all in the head with extreme proficiency by the SAS troops. The five man team proceeded towards the front of the aircraft. His men killed thirteen insurgents on the way their, five seconds later they reached the private cabin area. Scott scanned the room, no hostiles were apparent. "Red team, get ready to breach." Said Sergeant Andrews. Scott readied himself next to the cabin door. Oscar nine placed a charge on the door. "Do it."

The door blasted open, Scott thundered into the room, he knifed one man, broke another's neck and shot anther in the lungs. He looked to his left; an insurgent leveled his shotgun and aimed it at Sergeant Andrew. Scott raised his MP5 and blasted the insurgent's arms out. He then ducked as he saw another terrorist approach him, Scott picked the man by the legs and hurled him down, head first, crushing his neck. "Clear!" Said Scott. The five men searched the room. "Sir! No sign of the 'package'!" Said one SAS, Sergeant Andrews swore, "Dammit, so much for Intel. We've got the wrong plane guys." Several guys swore. But then a SAS corporal interrupted, "SIR! WE GOT BOGEY'S INCOMING EAST. MIG-23's SHIT THEVE OPE-" That's when the pilot in the lead MIG-23 fired his two R-60 heat-seeking missiles, they streaked forward and slammed few meters behind the cockpit, the entire front of the plane exploded, the fire bloomed outwards, and Scott was thrown back into the bulkhead.

He tried to make sense of what just happened. The plane started breaking apart, and then it split asunder. Scott looked to his left as he fought the turbulence, Sergeant Andrews tried to hold onto a seat but it ripped apart and sent him flying into a jagged piece of metal, severing his arm and sending the SAS trooper into the sky. Scott hung on to life as he saw several other SAS troopers fly out of the plane. He spotted a nearby Parachute, it was only two meters away, it was his only chance. As the plane began to shake itself apart Scott got up, snatched the parachute a let go, he was propelled out of the plane at over 100m/h, The SAS trooper spun feriousously against the atmosphere. It was like a HAHO drop, high altitude, high opening. He saw the remains of the plane split apart into tiny fragments, then explode.

0139 hours, April 22nd 2014, White house, Washington, USA

Inside the Oval office of the presidents of the United States, from Eisenhower to Bush, stood Britain's, US's and Frances six most experienced and professional Special Forces officers. Every single man in the room could single-handedly crush a nation, those seven soldiers were essentially their own army, and each of them was experts in armed and unarmed combat. The President of the United States, Mack Collin, although a veteran of the US Rangers, still seemed uncomfortable in the midst of these lethal men. The two secret service guards standing at the door were quiet surprised there wasn't any mutilated bodies lying within two meters of each man.

Mack Collin, a west-wing democrat and head-strong American patriot eyed the six men; the first was Lieutenant Commander Patrick 'Frosty' Millar, United States Navy SEAL and soon-to-be commander of these battle-hardened men. The second was Sergeant Major Roger 'Tazer' Macmillan, also a member of the SEALS, and second in command. Corporal Anthony 'Spike' Lloyd, a recent member of Frances elite-counter terrorism unit, the GIGN was third from the right. Mr. Four was Corporal Jones 'Fox' Wright was ex-Green Beret and loved the dirt beneath his feet. Fifth in line was Private Fraser 'Ghoul' Steven, former member of the Special Air Service, the SAS. Lucky last was Private Scott 'Red' Robinson, all the white in the White House reminded him of that near-death failed operation aboard Flight 344.

He remembered Sergeant Andrews, his eyes staring back into Scott, more penetrating than armor-piercing rounds. The fateful second the two R-60 missiles ripped into the plane, smashing the hull than exploding, sending the entire front of the plane ripping apart and flying into the desolate plains of Ireland. He landed on a farm, where he was taken in by a very-hospitable family. He didn't know if they were usually so keen on visitors or whether his black-painted face and MP5 scared them shitless. He guessed the latter was more close to the truth. After that operation he had fought in the SAS for three more years, targeting isolated bands of terrorists.

He was then selected as a candidate for Project Havoc, a joint-military experiment by the countries of the UN. Out of the 2259 other SpecOps candidates, he, Scott Robinson made it through the extreme mental and physical training, which made the training programs of the SEAL'S and SAS look like a bloody tea-party. The UN started the program out of the threats of expanded terrorism after the Twenty-first century economic downfall. After a whole five years of intense training, Scott, Patrick, Roger, Anthony, Jones and Fraser formed the world's most elite Special Operations unit, Team Havoc, otherwise known as Task Force 919.

But they were just the fighting force; the commander in chief of Team Havoc was Brigadier General David Kerman. A man who had commanded an entire bomber wing in Iraq and who also led a battalion of tanks and marines. There was no one better; he had extensive experience in the command of Air and Armored United Sates forces. David Kerman had also served as a Ranger, just like Mack Collin; in fact they had both served in the same company and had fought alongside each other through lethal operations. And now one was the leader of the world's most powerful country and the other of the world's most powerful military unit. Of course, David received his orders from the C&C, and that was Mack.

And now, here at the dome of the worlds most powerful man was the inauguration of the squad. The President walked over to Brigadier General David, the general handed over Mack a leather box. The President walked over to .Patrick, he opened the box and inside laid six gold-plated medallions. Mack took one out and pinned it to Patrick's uniform, "Welcome to Task Force 919." The two shook hands and saluted. Mack then repeated the process with the remainder of the squad. The medal was a winged, white skull with a red sword with a golden hilt crossing vertically from the forehead to the jaw. On the bottom was a war-torn band which read 'Seraphs of Havoc' When the President finally reached Scott he withdrew the last medal, Mack unclipped the pin and then clipped on Scott's blue uniform. The president then closed the box and declared, "Welcome to Task Force 919."

0400 hours, December 19th, nine years ago, during the Gulf war, somewhere near Erbil, Kurdistan, Iraq

The Kurdish sun began to rise, immersing the land in rays of light, enveloping the surrounding landscape as the moon began to descend. Fort Zagros was moderately busy with patrols and maintenance staff scrambling around the bases many compounds trying to make it to their different jobs so they didn't get crap from sergeants. The base was mainly Intel-oriented, and had little in the way of armor or air-support. Instead its main war fighting band was special operations, which was why three squads of US Navy SEALS were based there for the majority of the war.

Captain Patrick Millar was awoken by a blaring siren. He got up wearily and checked the time, it read 04:00am, _bloody hell_ he thought as the big man putt on his camo suit then strapped on a bulletproof vest, boots and standard issue helmet. Patrick then moved to the armory and selected a M249 SAW machine gun and a W1200 Shotgun as well as a M9 sidearm. He stuffed two ammo boxes for his SAW and twenty rounds for his shotgun into his pouches. By five minutes his squad of ten other Navy SEALS was packed into three Humvee's with their commanding officer riding shotgun. As the Humvee's screeched out of the base the CO briefed the squad, "SEALS we got a recon team pinned in an office building ten clicks to the south. Were gonna go in and getting em' the bloody hell out, confirm?" He said, the five men in the Humvee bellowed "Hooh-ya!"

The Three jeeps roared through the gravel streets of Erbil's outskirts. The lead jeep veered forward then swerved left into a narrow road, that's when a RPG-7 launcher was leveled from a rooftop, aimed then fired. The Rocket-propelled grenade slammed into the windshield of the lead vehicle and exploded with stupendous force killing all four men inside. A second rocket missed Patrick's vehicle and veered into a building, but the Humvee slammed into a pole. Patrick slammed his head against something hard, he could feel himself bleeding and tried to compose himself. The SEAL was about to open the crushed door until he saw five hostiles emerge with rifles.

They blurted out in some other language before kicking open the driver's door, the CO was semi-conscious and so they dragged him out and unleashed a torrent of bullets into his head. Then they fired at point blank range into the jeeps interior, killing three SEALS. Patrick ducked as the bullets smashed into his teammates. He then crawled out from the back as gun fire pinged around the jeep. Still bleeding the SEAL raised his SAW and spun around the back, the five armed men looked dumbfounded. There confusion cost them their lives as Patrick fired for three seconds straight, blasting out three arms, two legs and a rib. The five now mutilated and dead men dropped faster then hail.

Patrick spotted the last jeep; five SEALS fired everywhere, surrounded on all sides. The six foot seven SEAL thundered across the road as slugs plucked away at the surrounding area. He saw over twenty hostiles coming down an alleyway, ready to slam the SEALS' rear. With no hint of remorse or pity Patrick aimed the heavy machine gun and unloaded fifty rounds into the ambush group. They fell quickly, none of them saw the SEAL raise his weapon, and none of them fell to the ground alive. Patrick saw fifty or so enemy personnel surrounding the small group of SEALS. There seemed to be two men for every one enemy that fell. Patrick tried hopelessly to stop the enemy advance.

Behind him a SEAL was shot in the torso more than eight times. The man was still alive and screaming, more and more hostiles advanced. Patrick fired his M249 SAW in short bursts but soon he realized that there was no chance. By now there were more than sixty soldiers converging on his position. The SEAL ran to the back of the jeep as the remaining four SEALS fired CAR-15's and M4 rifles. The Humvee was riddled with bullets, the windshield was smashed in. Patrick fiddled around with dashboard until he found the radio, "This is Frosty 7, my squad has come under heavy fire, I have ten KIA and one wounded and dying. We need support immediately." The Sergeant said into the radio, he waited for a while before some one replied. "Roger Frosty 7, we have already got support on the way."

Patrick clambered out of the Humvee. He ducked as bullets zinged near his head. The SEAL fired blindly at a rooftop and was awarded with several shouts of agony. The hostiles started pushing in close, using assault and flanking tactics, but they were simply too amateur for that kind of maneuvering and simply stuck to suppressive fire. Patrick aimed at two hostiles coming in from the south and fired, cutting them down with his SAW. Two lucky bullets than slammed into Patrick's chest, the bulletproof vest blocked the first but the second ran through his shoulder. The SEAL didn't scream or beg he simply aimed and fired, over and over again.

Lieutenant Vanessa read the meters and gauges on the dashboard inside the cockpit of her Cobra Gunship. Her eyes danced as examined the controls, "Frosty 7 this is Echo 933, we have inbound air support ETA, three minutes." Vanessa looked behind; her co-pilot flicked some switches and said, "What's the situation Ma'am?" She said as she corrected some commands. "We got a SEAL team surrounded by some fifty or so towel heads. No AA threats except RPG's." She mused. The Cobra Gunship was armed to the teeth with rockets and guns able to tear a hole through an entire aircraft gunship.

Vanessa had served the US Air Force for more than ten years, and she loved it. The satisfaction of unleashing all hell upon her enemies was incomparable. It was the equivalent of your sniper rifle spitting, and blowing someone's head off. The Gunship soon reached the area; Vanessa estimated around seventy hostiles circling in alleys and rooftops around a small group of 5 SEALS. "Frosty 7 this is Echo 933, stand-by for an air-strike."

Vanessa clicked of the safeties on her joysticks than pressed the 'fire' buttons, at that moment four rockets blew out of their tubes; they exploded in dull thumps, killing around twelve hostiles.

Then she opened up with the 50mm cannons, the slugs came screaming in, bullets blasted out the enemy forces, killing an additional ten soldiers. Then she released more rockets and bullets, blasting out so many more hostiles. They started to scramble like ants as the merciless barrage of rockets and bullets cut their forces to bits. The Cobra gunship blasted out forty soldiers before turning around for another strafing run, Vanessa smiled and wondered how many Arabs had just swallowed their hearts as her finger pushed down the trigger. More and more soldiers fell and in the end of the short 50 second assault, sixty one soldiers had been blasted and shot.

"Echo 933 is returning to base for refit and refuel, pleasure working with you, stay Frosty." She chuckled as she brought the Gunship around to face the blaring sun. The fires that now raged on the surface rivaled that of the suns. Vanessa pushed the joysticks forward and brought the gunship up to bear, soon the chopper was flapping away at 250km/h. Sergeant Patrick Millar was down on the surface radioing for evac While the remaining SEALS checked for any survivors. The earth now exposed itself to the sun, and the desert hot surface of Erbil began to heat as amber rays protruded form the urban streets. Vanessa smiled, her job here was done.

Not too far away, a stinger missile launcher was brought to bear, famously used by the Israelis against the Russian MI-24 hinds or devil chariots of the soviet invasion Israel. The enemy soldier who held had recently eaten his morning breakfast of strong tea and bread, and was fresh for war. He aimed through the laser sights, tracking the Cobra gunship as it clattered back to its home base. The launch system beeped, signaling that the lock-on had been achieved, the trigger was squeezed and the devil of a missile discharged from its tube. The Stinger missile tracked the gunship for several hundred meters before detonating near the tail-rotor.

Vanessa and her co-pilot tried to control the spinning fury but to no avail. The Cobra gunship slowly spun downrange. The fires consumed the fuel tank and the tail, the air inside the cockpit was twice as hot as usual. She spun around until the tail crashed into a power line, the helicopter's tail was crunched up as it hit a building, Vanessa screamed as the cockpit exploded in a wrath of fire, smoke, dust and debris. The Cobra burned for a while until it exploded. The entire street was awoken not just by the explosion and fire but by the screams of two American Air Force pilots, people who had families falling to the hand of dictatorship and tyranny, just like the Kurdish citizens who now stared in astonishment at the burning hulk.

CHAPTER 2

1621 hours, May 1st, 2014, Iranian Government building, City center, Tehran, Iran

President Mohammad Al-Yaseen's black-clad Mercedes Benz SLR limousine screeched in front of the building, his loyal driver, Yassir, opened the door. Mohammad stepped out of the car and pushed through the front slide doors, he walked the length of the building and took and elevator to the third floor. He entered a private briefing room, inside a single man stood inside, scanning a newspaper. Just like a full month ago, General Waleed did not change, he didn't salute or welcome he simply looked at the president and chuckled, "So much for our special forces."

"Yes, yes, the assassination was a horrible failure, although we did manage to kill some nine people. Do you know what this will and has done to my reputation?" The president said as he took a seat opposite to Waleed. "In combat, we can only assume and suspect, there are always mistakes and we must-" Waleed started,

"IN COMBAT, WE DO NOT KILL NINE PEOPLE AND DESTROY HOUSES." Mohammad shouted, "YOU SUGGESTED THIS AND NOW THINGS COULDN'T BE WORSE! I THINK GETTING WASTED AND RAPING MY AUNTIE WOULD HAVE AROUSED LESS SHIT! AND WHO THE FUCK IS THIS JESSICA? PRANCING AROUND THE MEDIA SABOTAGING MY GOVERNMENT!"

"Sir, we must make a public speaking and inform Iran that the Iranian military or government, whether direct or indirect, had nothing to do with the apartment attacks." Waleed said calmly. Mohammad looked as if he was going to blow up, his eyes and cheeks were blood-red. Then surprisingly he snorted out, "Public speaking?" Now he was laughing almost hysterically, suddenly his face turned serious, like someone flicked a switch in his brain. "Do not suggest me to be diplomatic right now, this is a dire situation. We have to blame someone; can't we take it out on the Taliban, or Hamas?"

"Mohammad, we can't do that, they always take responsibility for their actions, and that would just make us look like sore losers."

"Hey! Do not say _we, _my government is not a plural, you wont be blamed for this, you won't get the crap from the media."

"We can own up to it, maybe say it was a failed military operation that went wrong under the hands of some corrupt soldiers?"

"No, no one will believe that load of rubbish."

"But its almost 80% true, it was a failed military operation which went wrong, a plot to eliminate an enemy of the people that went wrong due to the irresponsibility of rouge soldiers."

"Yes, maybe so, but that would make me look like a naïve decision maker."

"Why don't we say that there was an electrical discharge or great magnitude?"

"That won't cover up the huge explosions and nine deaths."

President Mohammad Al-Yaseen looked thoughtfully at Waleed. "How about we tell those media scum that the apartment and house contained dozens of gas cans, which was why the explosions were so large"

"What about the military involvement?"

"I'm sure we can convince the police, not to, um… reveal certain factors."

"And what of the Bentley?"

"Say it had nothing to do with anything. It was some mafia or gang-related street crime."

"OK Mohammad, I'll get my secretary to ready the files, let's just hope that no one ever finds out that an attempt on the life of the leader of the Al-Tamarad, Mustafa Bin-Khalid had gone terribly wrong." Concluded Waleed. As the president left the building Waleed pondered the fate of his country. He wouldn't be surprised if very soon, he reads the cover of the newspaper and sees a headline banner reading,

'Tehran attacked, President Mohammad resigns.'

0500 hours, approximately three months later, 2nd September, 2014, Tehran, Iran.

Twelve, large MI-8 'HIP' transport 'copters, loaded with over twenty Al-Tamarad commandoes each, chattered across the crimson dawn sky of Tehran. They flew for twenty minutes until they split into four groups of three helicopters each. They were designated each, the first group was Delta 1, and the second group was Delta 2 and so on and so forth. Delta 1 headed for the air field of the Iranian air force military base of Fort Al-Tairan, Delta 2 zoomed toward the hangars. While Delta 3 and 4 split up and scattered around the city centre, ready to seize important HQ's and government buildings.

The task force had lifted off from a top secret location, their eyes set on the goal, the complete blockade of Tehran. This mission, dubbed Operation Anew, had been planned and prepared by Al-Tamarad strategist for over a third of the year. And the Iranian military had no idea what was coming for them, in fact, other than squads of trainees, not one single senior military executive was even awake as the choppers of Delta 1 began to descend. They landed on the main runway, in a triangle formation. Their back hatches opened and sixty commandoes stormed out.

On the control tower, a comm. officer saw the charade, and instantly contacted his commanding officer. "Sir! I have three choppers unloading over fifty troops on the runway! They aren't wearing Iranian uniform sir. I think, Allah! The choppers are-" That's when the lead 'Hip' fired two rockets right at the tower, they streaked forward in perfect alignment before slamming into the large windows. The explosions shook the tower apart, killing the comm. officer and causing the tower to crumble from its foundations. This woke up all the occupants of the guard barracks.

Even though no one knew what was going on, the captain ordered the small rapid-response security force of thirty conscripts's to ready for battle. They putt on vests and helmets and stuffed their pockets with extra clips. One by one they poured out of the barracks, G3 rifles held closely to their chests. Two men carried a heavy machine gun and mounted it on an idle luggage trolley. The conscripts took up positions around the runway, readying for the attacks to come, but instead nothing happened for five minutes. Many witnesses swore they saw the commandoes unload on the runway.

While the Captain scratched his beard, the sixty commandoes scattered on the rooftops of the barracks', hangars and ammo dumps. They all lay prone, careful not to alert the guards, and at the right moment they jumped up and unleashed a volley of accurate small-arms fire on the rear flank of the rapid-response force. The conscripts took six casualties until they located the source of the fire. The untrained guards ran helplessly at the might of the new, unidentified enemy. The captain tried to maintain the position but even he then realized the numbers they faced, and so he fled as well.

The retreat became a rout as the commandoes cut down the guards from the back. The battle lasted only twenty minutes before the last guard fell. With the security force down and out, Delta 2 landed, the three helicopters unloaded and rendezvoused with Delta 1 to return to the base for refit and rearm. Now there were around 120 Al-Tamarad commandoes swarming all over Fort Al-Tairan, capturing the senior officers and neutralizing any pockets of resistance. After one hour the entire airbase was under control, the IAF (Iranian air force) flag was torn down and replaced with the green and black trident of Al-Tamarad.

Phase 1 of Operation Anew was complete, and phase two was already underway. The combined forces of Delta 3 and 4 had already destroyed the police station and Iranian Army Intelligence centre. They had seized numerous internationally revered landmarks and all the TV and Radio stations. All that was left was the government building, United States Embassy and Presidential Palace. All three locations were now heavily guarded by the National Guard and Secret Service. But the full might of Al-Tamarad had yet to be unleashed. The Al-Tamarad first Division of around 4000 troops was now hailing down on the capital. The City center was the un-official property of Mustafa Bin-Khalid, and no one could do anything about it.

Delta 3, now with their hands free as the First Division took over, had rearmed for the attack on the US embassy. The three nimble "HIP' choppers were now being aided by a single T-72 MBT, two BMP-2 IFV's and one Mi-28 'HAVOC' gunship. The force rumbled down the main road of the city-centre, small gunfire echoed in the distance as small skirmishes started to become struggles of power. The US embassy was official US property and land, which meant the attack, would be viewed as an official preemptive and unprovoked attack on the United States of America. But Mustafa frankly did not give a pig's ass or even a rat's ass who it belonged to, only that it was captured.

The Embassy was the first of buildings to be barricaded as soon as the attacks began. It was guarded by some twenty or so conscripts, thirty trained National Guards and ten US marines, all who tried to work together to form some sort of chain of command, the confusion and unsettlement was exactly what Delta 3 needed. The commandoes garrisoned three surrounding buildings, facing the front and sides of the embassy. The T-72, newly upgraded with a camo paintjob and treads, fired a single slug at a small office. The plan wasn't to unnecessarily blow things up, but to form a wall of ruble which would give the tank decent cover form rockets and/or missiles.

The street shook as the buildings road-facing wall collapsed, the debris and rubble formed a meter-thick wall of concrete. The tank stopped behind it, its cannon protruding from the top so the tank was covered from head to toe. The two BMP's blockaded the intersections their turrets facing the Embassy. The commandoes set up machine guns along the intersection, and racked the area with bullets just to scare the guards. Three conscripts deserted upon seeing the composition of the enemy force, but the USMC was no pushover.

They opened fire first on the T-72 with a single Javelin missile launcher, each missile cost over 80,000 US dollars, and the marines only had one. The missile blasted out of the tube and out the window, its second stage rocket propelled it sky-high many meters into the air. The missile then seemed to hang in the air before plummeting down on the tank's turret. The explosion didn't destroy the tank but the ammo inside started to cook off, sparks and flames erupted from every nook-and-cranny in the hull of the tank before it all exploded in an orge of fire, smoke and debris. _So much for the wall_ thought the young marine who fired the missile before a torrent of bullets rained down on him, even though the window was small, the slugs kept coming.

His body fell with over twenty bullets punctured in his chest and head, thin trails of smoke appeared from his body then evaporated in the air which reeked with the stench of blood and gunpowder. The guards returned fire at the commandoes, killing two of them and injuring a third. The BMP's then opened suppressive fire on the embassy, shaking its foundations. This gave the commandoes enough time to come around the back of the building and breach it. They stormed in; weapons raised but found nothing on the first floor. The ten man team cautiously came up the staircase, and then rounded the corner. In a staggered line, fifteen conscripts took cover beneath the windows; none of them saw the commandoes as they let loose a volley of rounds, cutting down all fifteen men and riddling the area.

Slowly they made there way up to floor three, which they encountered five marines and ten or so guards taking cover in a corridor. The spilt second of confusion to what these ten soldiers were affiliated gave the commandoes the moment they needed. They opened fire, mercilessly cutting down five marines. But they made a grave mistake; the ten men had no cover and did not see the two claymores pointed towards either side of the doorway. The mines exploded and killed the commandoes instantly, due to the tight quarters the explosions caved in the narrow doorway which engulfed the infiltration squad.

The marines retaliated with strategy not force. They threw smoke grenades then shrouded the streets with a smokescreen. The forces of Delta 3 could not see the marines come behind the BMP's and plant C4 charges on the engine hatches. The marines then retreated back to the embassy, using the smoke for cover. The commandoes did not realize what was going on behind the barrier of smoke until two crisp explosions bloomed outwards. The BMP's were not destroyed but were disabled, with no engine and no crew they were just smoldering hunks of metal.

The commandoes then resorted to guerilla tactics, using suicide car bombs and rocket charges against the guards. But the marines held for another half hour until clearance was given to the Mi-28 'HAVOC' gunship to open fire. The guards and marines never knew what hit 'em. The HAVOC gunship unleashed its arsenal of rockets, missiles and guns on the five story building. The abuse was nonstop, and the marines and guards could not do a thing about it. They assumed that if they held, the gunship would eventually run out of ammo, and the assumption was correct.

After two minutes of continuous fire the HAVOC left the scene to refuel and rearm. Delta 3 was now left with no air support and armor, they were now fighting defense as the guards threw grenades and fired rockets every time the commandoes let their guard down. The battle now became a very dangerous game of cat and mouse. They two factions switched animal roles each five minutes, and what was once a coordinated assault now became a frenzied struggle. The embassy was held for over three hours before contents of the first division came charging in. A battered Delta 3 returned to base while a task force of six T-90S tanks and over fifty soldiers surrounded the embassy.

They started a countdown, telling the guards they would be protected by the Geneva conventions if they surrendered in five minutes. The marines knew it was a load of horseshit, these were not soldiers but terrorists and half-crazed freedom fighters, and at least that was what the marines thought. Four minutes went by uneventful; the T-90S tanks started closing in. As the last second ticked away, ten men armed with RPG-7 rocket launchers and the six tanks fired at the building, the combined friction and force of the blasts made the building tremble before it finally caved in, killing all remaining 43 soldiers.

With the embassy destroyed, Delta 4 and three T-90S tanks as well as two gunships started to assault the more-heavily fortified government building. The battle lasted for eight hours, and by the end of the 480 minutes, all top-tier Iranian officials were either captured or dead. The captured were to be executed by firing squad while the dead were left to rot in the now half-destroyed ruins of the Iranian Government Building. The last phase of Operation Anew was to find and capture President Mohammad Al-Yaseen; reports came in that even though it was now 1600 hours, the president was forced to remain in his presidential palace because evacuation from a blockaded city was too risky.

Mohammad stared out of the window, his capital was ruined, and his brother dead and his honor deprived of him. He could see hundreds of men surround his house, accompanied by helicopters and tanks. Waleed was right, he should have just bombed Mustafa, and now his mistakes had left Iran's capital in the hands of these barbarous militants. The president told the remnants of his men to stand down and surrender. There was no way twenty secret service men armed with pistols were going to hold off a company-sized force. The guards were captured and lined up against the high wall of the palace. Mohammad was now in chains, forced to watch as a firing squad gunned down his protectors, Yassir was among those men, he had looked at Mohammad with eyes that could stop a mountain tiger dead in its tracks, before the bullets ripped him apart.

Mohammad was punched and stabbed with nails, it wasn't interrogation, and it was simply torture. The president screamed, a camera held in Mustafa's right arm as his left backhanded the politician across the face. The tape was being broadcast around the world, and people from Greece through to Fiji averted their eyes away from their televisions as the president was tortured alive. BBC, NBC, CNN, FOX and every other western 24h news program had the video stream live. Through the blood and pain, Mohammad heard Mustafa shout at the camera, talking about freedom and resurrection. After what seemed like hours of torture, Mustafa unclipped his holster and drew a Colt heavy caliber pistol, he pointed it at the president's face, murmured something in the camera than cocked the weapon and fired. The last thing Mohammad saw was the amber rays of nature reflect off the metallic sheet covering the pistol before fire engulfed his world, and then he saw and felt nothing.

CHAPTER 2

Following morning, 3rd September, 2014, Oval office, White house, Washington, USA.

"SOME ONE TELL ME WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON OVER THERE!" barked the president of the United States. Mack Collin wrinkled his forehead in frustration. Inside of the Oval Office the president's top-tier politicians and military personnel stood aghast at the Mack's temper. The president's military advisor, General Rolland Preston spoke first. "It's finally happened, that bloody maniac Mustafa has attacked the capital." He joined the president in frustration.

Rolland was a very technical, not superstitious and anti-media and pro-military. He had come from Harvard Law school, although he graduated with a Masters in law, he decided the Marines were his true calling. He joined the National Guard, and fought their for ten years before leaving for the USMC. And so he led legions of tanks and gunships during the final years of Saddam's reign. Rolland later decided that he was growing too old for the field and then rappelled his way up the ladder to the top of the White House. The Minister of Foreign affairs Jane Kinsley said,

"Sir, Tehran is now fully under militant control, the occupiers seem to number around 4,500. The Iranian government is in complete disarray as most of their top leaders have been executed, including President Mohammad. The whole of Iran might as well surrender, their military is still strong, but has been left almost leaderless." The president looked at Kinsley, she had also graduated with a Masters in Law, and instead of going for the military like Rolland, she settled for politics. She was not very keen about the prospect of being the minister of economics or defense, and so chose something in between. "With all due respect Kinsley, tell me something I don't know."

Rolland stepped forward, "Sir, the whole world saw that footage, everyone is expecting the United States to do something about it, the whole situation down there is a shithole, and the country is literally come under control of a new government. This Mustafa guy seems to know what he's doing, they've already set up base in the city centre and taken control of a local Air Base, I suggest we-" Rolland's voice faded out, the president's mouth was wide open, "HOLY SHIT!" he said, Rolland turned to the television and saw why the presidents heart almost stopped. On the HD flat screen a women with dazzling blonde hair stood with a microphone to her mouth standing next to the side door of a helicopter.

"Good evening, I'm Senior Correspondent Jessica Davies reporting from Tehran, as you all know the militant group Al-Tamarad has seized control of the city and I'm here with an exclusive report on the current situation. As you can see black shrouds of smoke and the river beat of gunfire is a testament to the scattered pockets of resistance still left in this city." The camera zoomed in on the distance where a building on fire crashed down; seconds went past until the debris and smoke disappeared and showed a group of men with arms raised, they appeared to be conscripts, no older than seventeen. Six uniformed Militia appeared from the shadows, they raised their rifles and cut down the surrendered youth.

"Oh…my…god. I have just witnessed the ruthless murder of ten teenage boys in the middle of the main highway." She murmured something to the pilot and the helicopter accelerated to the site of the battle. The Militia seemed to be happy at the arrival of a news helicopter, one even waved at Jessica. "It appears they want the publicity," chuckled someone in the background. Jessica whispered to the pilot again and the small and nimble helicopter turned west and flew towards the remains of the embassy. "This, this is, well the American Embassy." Jessica said, the president looked like he was about to vomit, the 'building' wasn't even a building anymore; three walls stood, blackened and burned and surrounded by debris and mangled corpses.

A trio of tank engines grumbled as they drove passed. "This is the aftermath of a battle on real _US_ soil. I cannot even begin to describe the atrocities." The latter comment was pointless, there was no description needed, the camera man captured the whole thing live. Over fifty or so mangled and mutilated bodies lay, accompanied with blood and guts and severed limbs. She averted her eyes, and disappeared from the camera, someone would guess she was vomiting. The camera zoomed out; the city looked like Berlin during the final months of the Second World War as clouds of smoke rose in the air, skyscrapers looked reminiscent of the south tower of World Trade Center before it collapsed.

"The Iranian government has been fully obliterated, the President has been executed and top-tier politicians captured or killed. The military has yet to react, but that won't come anytime soon, as they are virtually leaderless." Jessica then highlighted more of the details as they came in, most was bias and speculation, but two or three were true. The president muted the television and slowly walked over to his desk and sat down. "Kinsley, I want you to prepare an audience, I want to make it crystal clear that the United States will not and shall not send troops or intervene in any way with the current situation in Iran, be it politically or militarily, until the two factions have set an agreement to who is going to take control, and when. The US has never negotiated with terrorists and I do not see a reason to break that pact, until they have screwed their heads back on, the US will not interact with the Al-Tamarad but we may offer aid to the people of Iran. That is all."

And so, three hours later, the president, accompanied by the secret service and members of the desk, made a public speech to the world, saying exactly that. Meanwhile, Jessica Davies had returned to the office, where she was given a lecture by her half-aresed boss not to steal a helicopter and go on her little charades. Later he kissed her ass and thanked her for getting that million dollar report. That left Jessica's career balanced and good. She wrote a report, and the world flocked to see it. She had single-handedly become the most famous and anticipated female reporter, but was soon forgot of as others followed suit, sending reporters to go chase around gunfights in the city and pretend like the world had never seen anything like it.

The following week, the Al-Tamarad pushed in the full might of their army into the city, causing maximum mayhem, the civilians were left untouched, most were given aid and shelter by the Al-Tamarad, and soon by everyone else other than the United States, Mustafa was looked upon as a hero, liberator and man of freedom, justice and blah, blah. Mark Collin knew very well the only reason Mustafa did what he did was to make sure once Iran was fully under the jackboot of his tyranny that the civilians wouldn't go stark raving mad. Mark admitted he was a smart man, but all in all was convinced that Mustafa was just another half-crazed zealot dressed in sheets and towels that just managed to have thousands of psychopaths just like him following him and his crazy promises of freedom.

The Iranian military agreed, and under the leadership of a wounded General Waleed, pushed their forces into the city, trying to retake what was theirs. The Iranian air force bombed strongholds over and over again while the Navy used old Soviet ships to blockade supplies to Al-Tamarad. Iran tried to trace the supplies to their source but was always led into oil-mines, swamps and deserted tundra. So instead, they simply captured the supplies and used them to fund themselves. But despite all this, the Al-Tamarad continued its struggle, and eventually one by one, platoons of Iranian troops surrendered and defected to Mustafa.

By the second week of fighting, forces equivalent to three battalion's had defected to Al-Tamarad, because there they received money, women and food. This meant that the Al-Tamarad went from 5000 to 15000, and growing. General Waleed declared the fight the Iranian Civil War, and soon it became just that as civilians took to the streets, using Molotov cocktails and old service revolvers to cause havoc and casualties on both sides. The death toll started to rise and by the 24th of October, 6500 Al-Tamarad troops had been killed, along with 7200 Iranians and 1254 civilians which totaled to a horrific fourteen thousand, nine hundred and forty five casualties. 14945 deaths in only a few weeks, that was going to set on helluva record in the books, but it was nothing to be proud of. Iranian forces were criticized for being to reckless, while the Al-Tamarad lost support from the people.

And don't even get the media started on the United States. Every time they sent an ambassador to negotiate some sort of agreement, he or she would return to the states unharmed, but usually stripped of their dignity and respect. The United Nations gathered meetings in order to counter the ever-escalating war but to no avail. The Al-Tamarad forces were stubborn, not bothering to listen to anyone but their venerable leader, Mustafa. The media kept blaming Mack Collin for not ending the predictable war before it started. But ultimately the real problem was not of what was to be done, but why it was even happening. The Al-Tamarad or 'The Rebellion' simply said they were brining freedom, liberty and justice to the people of Iran, but everyone else knew they were doing the exact opposite. The Iranian Military frankly didn't give a damn, only that every one of them were exterminated form their country.

0731 hours, 24 October 2014, NSA headquarters, Maryland, USA

But Lieutenant Darren Franke and his boss, Vice Admiral Preston Hook at the National Security Agency in Maryland were on the case. Vice Admiral Preston Hook spat out the cold coffee, "Doesn't anyone in this godamn facility know how to make a coffee?" He shouted, all the occupants of the office shuddered at the thought of the huge six foot five man bearing down on their cubicle, eyes red hot and stomach barking for sustenance for the early morning shift. Lt. Darren Franke didn't lift his eyes from his desktop, he was very used to the barks of his boss, he didn't blame him, and the coffee surrounded by his disorganized piles of paper was horrible.

He was reading the internet version of the Washington Post; it covered the usual, Iran, Iran and Iran. The whole situation was more than just a coup, Darren was certain that it there was a deeper, more sinister cause to the continuous attacks. And his first stepping stone across the river to the truth behind the coup wasn't covered in the nightline or newspaper; in fact his first target was the coincidences. The first and foremost being the suspected 'military' attacks in the outskirts of Tehran four months earlier. Darren was locked onto the three forgotten explosions that were deemed 'unlinked' by anyone outside of the walls of the NSA building in Maryland.

Of course he didn't believe the bullshit about some electrical incident involving gas tanks. He had eyewitness reports saying the explosions were in fact implosions, the fires bloomed out of the fancy villa, and they were huge and blasted the roof of the whole place. He closed the 'window' and clicked on the shortcut for the NSA private database. He entered his passwords and codes and in five seconds was In the system. 'Mustafa bin-Khalid, the leader of the Al-Tamarad…' was the first sentence that appeared when Franke clicked on the 'current terrorist's' button on his desktop.

The man was of his late forties and had a shaven goatee; his face did not look like that of a terrorist but of a well-established soldier. Darren clicked on the Intel file and a map of the outskirts of Tehran popped up. An abandoned factory was highlighted as the headquarters of the Al-Tamarad, two buildings facing each other, not too far away from the HQ, were highlighted as the recently destroyed ones. Darren clicked the villa and a 3D image detailed the floors, windows doors and even the air vents. A large section was highlighted red and labeled destroyed, the apartment on the other building was a small room with a tiny kitchen and bathroom, Not exactly first class. It was also labeled destroyed.

He zoomed out of the image and returned to the map, the relative closeness and different, discreet routes to get form the HQ to the villa were extensive advantages. He closed the map and clicked on the database of Mustafa. The map returned and showed numerous locations and safe houses recently used by the arch villain, on the corner of the screen it read 6/7. That's when Darren scrolled the map left and located the seventh residence; it was a two story villa, surrounded by a high wall and faced a four storey apartment block on the eastern side

- That's when Darren's mind clicked. He continued reading- of the outskirts of Tehran. It was destroyed by unknown persons on the 3rd of April this year. Reports conclude that it was not a terrorist operation due to the scale and professionalism of the attacks.

Darren had found his first 'coincidence'. But this was no coincidence, an attempt of the life of a terrorist that attacks Tehran and seized it three months later. These were defiantly linked; but what bugged him was how no one ever saw these telltale signs. He was thinking about informing his boss first but decided not to until he confirmed the validity of the information. He peered behind his shoulder and saw Preston Hook marching out of the office room. Darren than picked up the phone and dialed the number of the private office of his lifelong confidant, retired CIA agent Leo Starkenzy from Nashville, Tennessee.

"Yo Leo, it's me, Darren, I got a breakthrough on the situation in Iran, I was gonna tell Boss but I wanted to check with you. You know, 'cause u know everything bout the Middle East." said Darren before Leo even had a chance to mutter a 'hello'. Leo chuckled, "Yea, I'm free right now, meet me at my place 12' o' hundred hours, don't be late, this isn't a dinner party, just steak and mayo sandwiches." Leo slammed down the phone, without bothering to use proper telephone etiquette. Darren returned the phone to the answer machine then flexed his shoulders and returned to work.

Same time, BP oil field facility A21-C, oil mines fields, southern Iran

Field Marshall Saed sat in the lead T-90 tank, forty identical tanks followed. The T-90 tank was a development of the older T-72 tank; it was equipped with a 125mm Rapira 3 main gun, a coaxial 7.62 mm machine gun and a 12.7mm heavy AA machine gun. It ran on a V-84MS 12 cylinder diesel engine that achieved a top speed of 60km/h. Saed's battalion was equipped with the default armor but his lead tank was covered with Kontakt 5 explosive reactive armor which gave a better defense against HEAT (High-explosive, anti-tank) projectiles. His objective was to capture the BP oil field without blowing it to hell, so that Mustafa could repay his 'weapons financier.'

Saed didn't know who Mustafa was talking about and frankly didn't care, he was just happy that he was given tanks, a role and a mission. The Iranian army had sixty or so older T-62 tanks guarding the oil field, upon requests from the United States oil giant. These tanks had weaker cannons and armor, but in number would prove effective. Saed surveyed the enemy using his binoculars, the sixty tanks formed a semi-circle wall along the side of the facility, and their cannons spread out to cover most of the approach. Going head in would prove very stupid, so Saed countered their good defense with an excellent offense.

The facility was shaped like a box, with two sides guarded and the rear not guarded. Saed drew a chart of his strategy; it was a diversion and flank tactic. His army would attack one side, when the enemy moved to engage, his battalion would split in two, and twenty tanks would attacks the remaining guarders while the other twenty engaged the flank. The chart was spread around the tanks crews, and after fifty minutes of utter stillness, the tanks moved into formation.

The bulk of his army then turned north, driving adjacent to the facility but out of range from enemy cannons, one tank strayed to close and was fired upon, luckily it was not damaged and returned to formation. After an hour, the forty T-90 tanks reached the corner of the BP facility, they split into two groups (Delta 1 and Delta 2), but made it look like it was going to be a full on charge. The enemy sent thirty of their tanks forward to engage, just like Saed had planned, the entire eastern wall was vulnerable.

The older T-62's started rumbling in, the mirage of the desert made them look like ghosts emerging from the horizon. The 39 ton tanks kept coming with no hesitation. They did not take a moment to survey the enemy strategy, and they simply kept coming. Field Marshal Saed waited until the tanks came into range, he braced, his hand out, palm raised. He waited for the best timing, when the enemy seemed confused to why the attack hadn't begun, when the enemy decided to get too cocky. That exact millisecond was when his hand came down, time seemed to slow down as gravity and muscle drove the limb towards the top of the turret.

Forty 125mm cannons erupted, the combined force of the forty shells spitting out of their tubes caused the ground to rumble and ears to pop. The shells flew with perfect grace; they all landed on or around the hulls of the tanks of the approaching enemy force. The cracks of the explosions in the distant mirage shook the earth almost as hard as Pearl Harbor did on the fateful day that the Japanese attacked Hawaii, causing the US to enter the Second World War and eventually end it with the atomic bombings that made Pearl Harbor pale in comparison.

The enemy lost nine tanks in the opening salvo. Then they returned fire, using the T-62 tanks' 115mm cannons against the foe. They fired in a disorganized fashion, and for not even a second was there silence. Saed's tanks fell to the oncoming onslaught of shells, but they returned fire with renewed vigor, blasting out more tanks. One lucky shell missed an enemy T-62 and went right over it, the shell blasted into the head of the officer in charge of the tank who so happened to want his body pocking out of the turret for everyone to shoot at. The shell kept flying for two milliseconds before blasting in mid air, right above the engine compartment. The air-explosion cooked of the ammo and fuel inside and dented the armor. The hull of the tank sparked then finally exploded in a furious combination of flames, ammo, shrapnel and smoke.

The second phase of the battle begun, the two groups split up, and the first headed directly for the left flank of the southern wall of tanks, while the other group pushed head on, around the enemy engaging force and to the right flank of the southern guard. The two groups however kept firing while pushing in at top speed. The engaging force of thirty tanks was too confused and slow to turn around to face the new formation, and so fell to the merciless barrage of enemy shells. The first group, delta 1, upon reaching the eastern flank switched to using there AT-11 Sniper laser guided ATGM's (Anti-tank guided missile). The missies flared out and once again, due to lack of speed, the Iranian forces were blasted.

Delta 1 then switched from missiles to shells in an instant, and then fired away. The southern guard turned to face the new aggressors; the commanding officer ordered the whole southern guard to encircle Delta 1. Saed ordered his forces not to move, the enemy encircled Delta 1, leaving their rear ripe for the taking. Delta 2 reached the western flank and attacked the encircling foe. The enemy never stood a chance, too busy trying to encircle and wipe out the first group, they did not know of the rear attackers.

After three hours of battle, the remaining six Iranian Army tanks surrendered. The facility was finally theirs. The personnel within the BP oil field did not resist capture. The next week, Russian oil workers would enter Iran, under the direct supervision of Al-Tamarad and begin working the oil fields. 40% of the funds would go to Russia. Of course the whole operation was designed so that no one would ever find out that Russia, under direct command from Premier Boris was illegally, in defiance of the TWAS treaty, supplying weapons to the terrorist group Al-Tamarad in return for oil funding to restore the ever crippled Russian economy. But some secrets, especially ones involving international piracy, aren't always kept.

1205 hours, 24th October 2014, CIA agent Leo's residence, Maryland, USA

The sleek black BMW screamed down the road, its engine roaring. The suburbs were generally busy at this time of day, a few pedestrians were walking along the foot path, minding their own business when Darren rammed the accelerator and turned the steering wheel left. Although not one for racing of any kind, Darren loved the thrill of sharp turns down Leo's driveway. The ensuing screech of the tires challenged the worker operating a drill several meters down the road. Some questioned whether it was really necessary to make such a sharp turn, none knew it was being driven by a NSA Intel officer ready to break news of a possible terror threat to America to a retired CIA agent.

Most of Leo's neighbors were oblivious to the fact they had a retired CIA agent who was an expert in all forms of combat and had an eagle eye on middle eastern affairs was even living across the road. The BMW then decelerated to just 5km/h, Darren parked it next to a large, dark blue and tinted four wheel drive Ford. The NSA agent stepped out; his sunglasses and suit made him look like a detective cop from a TV show. He ringed the door bell, the tune echoed throughout the double story, brick and tile mini-mansion. Statuettes were aligned along the balconies, a wind chime emitted a calming song in the breeze, it was almost unbelievable for most that a former CIA agent lived here.

The door opened, Leo with his black side swept hair, with traces of grey stood at his lumbering height of almost two meters. Next to his feet a large Spaniel, with also a black coat of hair, barked at Darren. "Come in, come in." waved Leo over the barking of the dog. A few orders were sufficient to get the dog running up stairs. Darren removed his coat and hung it then Leo led him to the library and greeted his wife on the way there. They both sat down after Leo put another log in the fire. "So, what brings you here?" He said, Darren thought for a moment.

"Well, I did a bit of studying and I have a feeling in the pit of my stomach that the so called 'military' incidents that occurred almost four months ago, you know, the apartment and villa explosions, are linked very closely to the recent Civil War in Iran." Darren explained in detail about his findings, how the villa was Mustafa's residence and how the explosions were of professional execution. Of course, Leo was surprised, but like always when being involved in Middle Eastern affairs, was not shocked. "Yeah, so what do you need from me?" He inquired after Darren's impromptu report.

"I need inside sources; you have an army of agents in and around Iran. Think of this not as a military investigation, but just as a favor for an old friend. I need to know whether or not the Iranian Military and/or government were ever involved with these attacks. I don't care how small and insignificant or international your findings are, only as long as they are legitimate, non-bias sources I can trust. Of course, this shouldn't be hard for a man of your ability." Darren finished, Leo thought for a moment. "Ok, I'll do it, but don't assume these are all connected, you will be surprised how many investigations I've worked on in the past just turned out to be mere coincidences. You have my word… So how about that steak and mayo sandwich?"

1323 hours, 25th October 2014, Kremlin, Red square, Moscow, Russia

Premier Boris Krukov unzipped the bag, inside he withdrew a laptop. Although originally built for office work, it was redesigned to fit one terabyte and upgraded to a top-class military intelligence gathering a national security device, capable of all kinds of codes, code breakers, messages and features. It was comparable to the laptops used by the President of the United States. Boris took it with him wherever, and had a tracking device attached to it, not because he was a security-obsessed geek, but because the Intel in it could destroy his country if ever discovered, some secrets within that hard drive were too important and life-threatening to risk capture.

He pressed the 'on' button, it powered on with a crystal-clear and bright back-light. In moments Boris typed in several passwords, and had his eye and thumb scanned. The laptop than connected him to a high-speed, wireless and secure network. He clicked on a desktop icon, and was then connected to Mustafa. On the other side of the world, Mustafa adjusted his own webcam. "We have captured the city and a large oil field. We are beginning the shipment soon. Your tanks are holding up very well, and air power has become our asset. However, I take concern with your means of transport; the Iranians have tried to track their source, and of course, failed. But two or three have come very, VERY close. Too close for comfort to be honest. Which brings me to my point; we need your transport to be more secure-"

"Don't fucking push it Mustafa, my ass is being chewed already by so many, and I don't need you added to my list of problems."

"Just listen. I've ordered some airfields to be rebuilt; I'm sending you the relevant imagery right now."

Boris downloaded the pictures and viewed them.

"Are these secure sources?"

"As secure as it can get, it will take a week or two to fully construct the airfields, but it should be very safe to operate from within a discreet perimeter."

"So you want me to start sending it in by air, correct."

"Affirmative. But use these secure routes." Mustafa sent more photos. Boris viewed each quickly.

"I see you've been very busy."

"Not me, well, at least not the Intel gathering, Incase you haven't noticed I'M fighting on the frontlines."

"Oh sorry, I forgot. Incase YOU haven't noticed, I'M the supplier, and you're the needy and bearded bastard."

"True, but without me your country will fall quicker than the Berlin wall."

Boris averted his eyes, admitting defeat. "Ok, we both need each other. I need oil, and you need guns. I'll go with your proposal but you better have those airspaces patrolled." Without further a due, Boris closed the video link and shut the laptop. He had filing to do.


End file.
